


no restraint

by cartographies



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Road Trips, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartographies/pseuds/cartographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the moment, however, Burr is finding it difficult to remember any of the positives of his association with Alexander Hamilton. They stand up poorly when considered from the middle of the particular hell that is being trapped in a carriage with him, headed upstate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no restraint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marks/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, recipient! The likes in your letter included sex pollen, 'uptight characters totally losing it', and Aaron Burr. I hope this satisfies.

Working with Hamilton has proven frustrating in the extreme, but up until now the benefits have outweighed the annoyances.

That’s the most infuriating thing about it. The annoyances were not insignificant. If so, Burr could handle the degree to which the positive aspects outstrip the negatives. But the negatives being of such a number that Burr is forced to acknowledge the magnitude of the positives is really too much to bear.

They work well together. The Levi Weeks case had not only opened the possibility but also validated it to such a degree as to erase the fiction Burr had been building that it was a one-time affair, an extraordinary opportunity, to be remembered fondly and not repeated. Indeed, the reason that it could be remembered fondly rested on the fact of it never happening again.

“Remember that time you referred to me as your assistant counsel to a crowded courtroom?” Burr pictures himself saying. In this fantasy, he and Hamilton are old men, drinking around a fire together. Hamilton makes a disturbingly endearing old man in Burr’s imagination, edges all worn down and transformed into a harmless crotchetiness, as if he has lost his metaphorical teeth along with the physical. Burr dimly notes that his mind’s eye, by contrast, has provided his own shrunken visage with a pearly mouthful. Hamilton remembers. They laugh it up. 

But they made a fine team, and neither of them just starting out felt able to pass up the opportunities afforded by working together. Burr knows he could get on just fine by himself with the prestige of his venerable name. Although he lacked that advantage, Hamilton could probably get by on the connections made during the war, the esteem granted by being a favored protégé of Washington, and by his native talent. But of course Hamilton was not content with just _getting by_.

At the moment, though, Burr is finding it difficult to remember any of the positives of his association with Alexander Hamilton. They stand up poorly when considered from the middle of the particular hell that is Burr being trapped in a carriage with him, headed upstate. 

The roads are poor, every bump jostling Burr against the frame and dashing Burr’s hope of sleep as a way out. Because Hamilton talks to himself. If he hadn’t already been aware of this quirk he would suspect that the other man is doing it on purpose to annoy him. He’d found it almost charming before being forced to this new and intimate appreciation of it. 

In the three hours they’ve been traveling, the products of Hamilton’s efforts at his lap desk have broken their bounds and bloomed across his side of their conveyance. Every time Burr shifts position, his feet crunch against some discarded piece of paper that has transgressed the seat and fallen to the floor. Hamilton had caught his attempt at stealthily craning his neck to read what was written on one and said cheerfully, “Hey man, if you’ve reconsidered your refusal to participate in my project, it isn’t too late to let me know.”

Every hole in the road out to destroy Burr’s rest is at least also out to destroy Hamilton’s productivity. With almost comforting regularity Burr hears Hamilton curse, and looks up to see his quill shudder across the page, spewing ink. 

“I hate. Leaving. The. City.” Hamilton says after about the tenth time, setting aside the traveling desk very gently given the fact that it’s obvious his first impulse is to throw it and is held in check only by the limited space of the carriage. It can’t be because the desk itself is valuable; it’s a shabby looking thing, heavily scarred. 

“You could always buy a new desk. It looks like that one has served its time, and with due diligence,” Burr says, unable to resist the pause in Hamilton’s industry. Really, what is there to do on long trips but talk to one’s companions? Only Hamilton would be rude enough to reject Burr’s company when there isn’t a single other human being to talk too. 

“What?” Hamilton says from where he was giving in to his aborted sense of drama by flinging himself back against the seat in exasperation. Burr mimes flinging the thing, inkwell and all, out the window. Hamilton laughs.

“Ah, well.” Hamilton tenderly runs a finger down a particularly deep groove in the wood, Burr’s eyes leaving his face to follow its movements. “I would free it from its surely wearisome service to me, but it has a lot of sentimental value. I carted it with me through the entire war.” Hamilton has a moment where he looks like he is going to say something more, give in to a moment of nostalgia. Burr is vaguely irritated when he visibly stops himself from speaking further. Burr relates to the feeling suggested by the pensive look on Hamilton’s face. Strange, that such nostalgia belongs to events so recently in the past. But the war, once concluded, almost immediately took on all the wistfulness of a second, slightly more gruesome childhood. 

Even more bothersome is that given all the time Burr spends wondering at the freedom with which Hamilton seemingly expresses his every thought, it gives Burr a feeling of unease to think that perhaps that isn’t true, that maybe Hamilton’s rashness, so compelling and infuriating to witness, is in the end pointless if he is in fact capable of keeping some things safe and hidden.

“Angelica bought me a new one for Christmas last year, sent all the way from London. Extremely fashionable and all that, and she was very cross with me when Eliza reported that I hadn’t used it once. Took me to task in a letter and I responded that she knew that gift giving was really a present to herself, given how much she loves to spend her husband’s money.” Hamilton says this in a tone so split between a familiar venom and an unfamiliar affection that Burr can’t parse it. 

“And here I thought you had such...respect for Mrs. Church.” Burr smiles thinly.

“Oh, I have more for her than I do for just about anyone else. I only bother to needle people I truly respect.”

This is such an objectively untrue statement that Burr is surprised that it’s delivered with a straight face. He gives Hamilton a dubious look. “I’m sure the knowledge that its really poorly expressed esteem would comfort all your opponents at the bar. You’ve made lawyers of twenty years experience cry, you know.”

Hamilton puts his hand to his forehead and staggers back in pretend shock. In a stage whisper he says, “Burr, was that a compliment?” 

Then he turns serious again. “I don’t respect any of those imbeciles. The line between needling and mockery is perhaps too fine a one for me, I’ll admit. But its there if you know what to look for.” 

This is the moment where their carriage wheel decides to break, although Burr only figures this out in a case of reverse effect-cause detective work, when he has to figure out the reason for why he suddenly has a lap full of Alexander Hamilton through a ringing skull from where he’s smacked his head on the wood behind him.

*

Luckily, their driver, a young guy whom Burr would refer to as an adult only out of vague sense of comradeship created by his memories of that dreary epoch in his own life, is from the area. Unluckily, ‘the area’ is barely deserving of the name. 

“Nearest town is about ten miles,” he says in reply to Burr’s patient inquiries while Hamilton curses and fucks around with the broken wheel as if he can somehow fix it through force of will. “But there’s an inn about a mile through the woods that way, I can get a horse and find a wheelwright.” He finishes this pronouncement by scratching his chin and staring off into the middle distance. 

“Through the WOODS? What’s the point of an inn that can only be reached _through the woods_?” Hamilton bursts in, with enough horrified contempt in his delivery of the word ‘woods’ to make any born-and-bred New Yorker proud. 

The kid shrugs. “Dunno.”

Burr eyes him, thinking. He would suspect the whole thing to be a set up, a plan to rob them of their things and possibly murder them, if not for his faith in the fact that human stupidity ultimately wins out over human evil. It doesn’t seem like their young friend here possesses the necessary gumption to be entrusted with even carrying out part of a plan concocted by more enterprising fellows. Also, they don’t really have much of a choice.

“Lead the way, then,” Burr says.

“Through the _woods_ ,” Hamilton mutters, one last time.

* 

The three of them manage to drag their incapacitated transport and luggage into the trees bordering the road and hope for the best when it comes to everything still being there when they return. Burr only takes the things he needs for the night and what he can’t afford to lose, but Hamilton insists on dragging his lap desk, several of his most essential books, and all his sheets of paper with him on their trek down a ribbon of slightly flatter looking undergrowth that their brave guide assures them is a track that will eventually deposit them at their destination. 

Hamilton grumbles the whole way, struggling with his load and sweating in the late summer heat. Birds sing in the trees as they make their way through the dreamy green forest-light, and Burr would enjoy this little sojourn in nature if it wasn’t for Hamilton constant broadcasting of his discontent. 

“This mythical inn,” Hamilton says at one point.

“What, you think this fellow here is capable of helping set in motion a plan to rob us? He doesn’t seem all too bright.” The lad is a few feet ahead of them, walking with long confident strides, but Burr has matched his pace to Hamilton’s encumbered one.

This reasoning earns Burr an odd look. “Stupid people are capable of inflicting a lot of damage,” Hamilton responds. 

They arrive at the inn just as afternoon is about to give itself over to evening. It is the opposite of mythical, a two-storey wooden building with a dirt yard filled with rusting farm equipment and scrawny, menacing chickens, rather depressing to look at.

“We’ll have to stay the night,” he says to Hamilton, as their driver gives the necessary explanations and procures a horse, although this process begins only after a lengthy catch up from the innkeeper’s wife determining what his parents, siblings, and various cousins to the fourth degree are up to. Burr has to prevent Hamilton from interrupting and rudely demanding they get on with it with a hand on his arm and a look; the rituals of people coming together can’t be rushed, here or anywhere else he’s ever been. 

“Fantastic,” Hamilton sighs. 

“Don’t tell me you’re a snob, Hamilton. This place looks quite cozy.” He meant this as an innocent joke, but he sees a sudden tension grace Hamilton’s shoulders. Burr can imagine the innuendo that has probably been placed on similar words directed Hamilton’s way, the _surely considering your origins, you have no room to complain about any accommodation that’s offered to you_ lurking behind good-natured teasing as Hamilton took in the various grim places he was expected to lay his head during the war. 

Burr understands too well the impulse behind the cruelty directed Hamilton’s way, even if people have by now learned better than to say it to his face. He doesn’t think other people understand it themselves; they probably really do believe their ire is owing to Hamilton’s squalid beginnings, and the needed assurance that surely the heights he’s attained must owe to something base. Burr wishes he had the protective gauze of smug superiority at his disposal, but instead he thinks his burden is being condemned to know that Hamilton’s background just serves to throw his accomplishments into unbearably bright relief. That’s far harder to accept with grace. 

Hamilton sometimes seems to catch onto the strand of Burr’s thoughts, albeit usually in an inexact way; he does so now. “Well, I suppose I was just feeling nostalgic for the war, earlier. We never got to experience it together, Burr, and I think you’ll agree it’s a bonding experience like no other. I guess the universe wanted to correct it.” 

Burr hadn’t found that the stresses of war had not resulted in a particular intimacy with anybody but he still responds dryly, “Yes. I feel closer to you already.” 

Hamilton grins at him, and Burr feels his lips twitching into a returning smile, but it’s interrupted by the innkeeper’s wife and their driver having resolved all the logistics and she turns their attention on them. They are swept inside and deposited in a dusty little room with a perilously sloping roof before they know what’s hit them. 

Hamilton dumps his things on the rickety table. “Looks like we’re going to be bed-fellows, Burr. Do you snore?” 

Burr looks at the sagging mattress and says, “I think that’s the least of your worries. Pray there isn’t lice.”

Hamilton’s hand flies to his bound hair seemingly of its own volition, accompanied by a look of completely genuine horror. “Oh God,” he moans. “Don’t even joke about that. Eliza wouldn’t take risks, she’d make me shave my hair off before she allowed me in the house again, and then the sight of me with a shaved head would make her divorce me.”

“Interesting, that you think your wife’s love of you rests entirely in your hair.”

“I’ve long suspected it.” Hamilton says with a dramatic sigh. “I don’t want to try to prove my hypothesis.” 

Burr rolls his eyes. He isn’t looking forward to sharing a bed of that reduced width with Hamilton, and his own first instinct would also be some joking complaint about the fact. But sometimes he finds his responses muted with Hamilton, just to watch how he fills in the vacuum.

Hamilton sets to sorting out the things he has brought and resuming his work. Burr watches him for a moment, struck by vulnerability of the revealed nape of his neck as he redoes his ponytail with quick and graceful movements. 

Burr has nothing to do, he didn’t bring any work with him to begin with and their isn’t anything to be done on the case that has brought them, by unexpected occurrences, to this forgotten spot. He wanders over to the shelf set in the wall. It contains a pitcher, a glass, a towel, and surprisingly, a book. Some lurid romance, left behind by a previous guest. Burr picks it up with a shrug. There are worse ways to pass the time. 

When he opens it, a cloud of dust radiates out of it. Burr ends up inhaling most of it, coughing and spluttering at the itch it sets off in his throat. No, more than an itch – a burning. That’s strange. He gets a good look at the title page in front of him for the first time and see that it isn’t dust at all, but some kind of grayish powder. 

“Alright, Burr?” Hamilton asks without looking up. “This place could use a good dusting.” Burr watches him make a prim face at the elbow of his jacket, which has gained some dust from where he had propped it up on the table. 

He is about to mention this to Hamilton, but for some reason does not. He turns and sets the book on the other end of table from where Hamilton has set up shop. His chest suddenly feels tight, as if he is getting less air into his lungs than he was just a moment before. He goes to the bed and sits on the edge, staring ahead of him at nothing. The room suddenly feels very warm and he glances at Hamilton, to see if he has noticed how the room seems to have abruptly shrunk in size. But the other man is absorbed in writing, which is good, because Burr is staring at him, mesmerized by the sweep of his nose in profile. It’s a very nice nose, Burr thinks. His palms are itching, and he rubs them against his thighs, and is considering what looks to be the pleasing softness of Hamilton’s bottom lip when he realizes his dick is swelling up in his pants. 

He stands up, says Hamilton’s name. It comes out tinny and echoing to his ears. Hamilton looks up at him and does an obvious double take at seeing the change that has been wrought in Burr in the last ten minutes. There is a vein ticking in Burr’s jaw, he is shivering violently, and he is fully, obviously hard.

“I seem,” Burr says, attempting a joking smile that he is sure comes out as a grimace instead, “to have got myself in a bit of a predicament.”

Hamilton’s mouth is open, Burr has to fight the impulse the cross the space between them and forcibly slam it shut. He can’t believe he is experiencing Hamilton made speechless for the first and perhaps only time and he isn’t even in any state to enjoy it. 

But Hamilton quickly regains control of himself, a very familiar look of intensity on his face as he examines Burr, looking for answers that Burr must seem incapable of providing. 

“It’s -” Burr kind of wants to die, rather than be here, exposed for study under Hamilton’s gaze, as bare to his examination as anyone he has ever taken apart on the witness stand. His hips are making small jerking movements, his cock seeking the paltry relief of the head occasionally catching against the material of his pants, sometimes even finding the bliss of the pressure of the buttons at their front. There is a growing damp spot, screamingly visible. “It must have been…”

He can't finish, jerks his head towards the book on the table. Hamilton glances at it, takes in the powder that both coats the pages and the grainy wood of the table surrounding it, shaken loose when Burr had set it down. Hamilton says slowly, “Yes, that must be it. Some kind of powerful aphrodisiac.” The ease with which he states this improbable conclusion seems odd to Burr, but he supposes Hamilton has a greater talent than most with working with the impossible when it happens to be thrown in his path. It looks like it’s taking all Hamilton’s willpower not to pick up the volume and examine it, like a small boy with an interesting specimen of bug found in the yard.

Burr feels a suspicious wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. He won't, he refuses to reach down and touch himself. Then he realizes it’s already too late, he has lost, he is grinding his palm against his crotch, and he hears himself say, “Fuck. Fuck,” his voice shaking and tear-bright.

“Burr.” Hamilton's voice is soft and Burr jerks his eyes up to meet the other man’s and oh, it's worse than he imagined. There is no mockery, no smugness, and no glee at the state Burr is in. His eyes are quite kind, but without the pity that would provide a helpful grip for Burr’s scorn. He seems fondly amused that Burr is working himself into such a state over something so natural. It must be such a common predicament for Hamilton, Burr thinks nastily, being unable to control his animal lusts, no better than a rutting dog around a bitch in heat, and _fuck_ , he shouldn’t have thought that. He doesn't really believe it of Hamilton. He's just using a script others have provided, and Burr believes it is dangerous to be anything less than absolutely precise where Hamilton is concerned. But more, the images it calls up, here in this small dim room together - Burr’s mind stutters away from it, but too late.

“I’m gonna leave, and let you...deal with it.” He flaps his hands vaguely in Burr’s direction.

Then he leaves the room, giving Burr no time for argument. Not that Burr would, or could. The click of the door closing is the like the report of pistol signaling the start of a race. He has his hand on his cock without having made a conscious choice on the matter.

It only takes a few tight strokes for him to come, but as he does so his mind is not blessedly blank. He’s thinking, goddamnit, of Hamilton. Where has he gone? Is he still outside the door, waiting for Burr to get himself in order? It is probably impossible for Hamilton to hear anything, the slick sounds of his hand moving on himself, the quiet bitten-off grunts he can’t seem to silence entirely, but the thought that he can - that’s it, he comes all over his own hand, the other clutching at his coat over his heart, having not quite managed to get at the handkerchief in the pocket there. He will take it as a small victory, that he had enough presence of mind to try to avert the destruction of his pants, if not of his dignity.

It’s without doubt the least pleasurable orgasm of his life. In fact, it’s so unsatisfying that Burr is forced to conclude the only reason sex feels good is the knowledge of relief at the end, the release from the tyranny the body has imposed on reason. Because he realizes, with slowly dawning horror, that he is still achingly hard. He has merely made a mess, without taking the edge off, or even blunting it. He begins to pull at his cock again, desperate. It takes him only a moment to recognize that he won’t come again, not like this. 

There isn’t anything for it. He makes himself what could be called presentable by only the barest of technicalities, and goes to the door. He says Hamilton’s name, at a normal volume, but gets no response. He opens the door just wide enough to get a view of the hall. Hamilton is at the far end, sitting in a chair resting in the fading light coming through the window at the landing. His head turns at the ugly creak of the door opening. Burr sees that Hamilton has put on his glasses, and had brought his lap desk from the room, although Burr had apparently been in such a state that he hadn’t noticed. Hamilton is not wasting the opportunity of this unexpected interlude to get at pen and paper. For fuck’s sake. 

He hates that circumstances keep presenting themselves where Burr is forced to be grateful for Hamilton’s lack of hesitation. He does not have to request that Hamilton come back into the room, to explain his predicament. Hamilton takes one look at the strain on his face, the ticking in his jaw, the sweat that he can feel standing out on his hairline and with a quick and obvious darting of his eyes southward, at the prominent bulge in Burr’s pants, and gets up and follows Burr back into the room. 

“It didn’t - work.” He is forced to gesture at himself, because it is beyond him to verbalize anything at the moment. He half expects Hamilton, with his usual passion for exactitude to ask him to expound, to inquire if Burr was sure, did he try again, how did he know? 

Instead, Hamilton takes on an intense look of concentration and says, “There’s probably a prostitute in town.” 

“Town is ten miles away.” He can’t wait that long. The scent of his earlier release hangs heavy on the still air of the room, obvious as a slap. The sweat that was beading at his temples has consumed his whole face, his body a furnace, feeding on itself. He fumbles out of his coat, cursing, ripping it in his haste and then flinging the damn thing across the room. He stands there in his shirtsleeves, chest heaving and his hands pressed over his eyes. He digs his thumbs into the sockets, and if he hoped the sudden bloom of pain would cut through the haze, he is disappointed. 

“Well, there’s only one thing for it, then.” Hamilton’s voice barely seems to reach him, as if it is coming from a long way off. But he manages to drag his eyes to Hamilton’s face, struck by an absurdly academic curiosity as to what solution the man could possibly provide. What he sees leaves him more dumbstruck than anything that has come before.

Hamilton has hefted the book off the table, swiped a finger through the powdery residue, and meeting Burr’s gaze, sticks his finger in his mouth.

“Hamilton. What. The. Fuck.” There is, in all the words under God’s sun, no other possible response available to him.

Hamilton shrugs, “It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise.”

“What wouldn’t be fair? I’m in this state, just from inhaling the stuff, and you just licked -” For one perfect moment, the impossible is achieved. Hamilton has managed to be so frustrating that he has completely forgotten his _supernaturally powerful erection_. Only a second, a single heartbeat, because then he catches on to what Hamilton has just proposed. “Oh.”

“The option is there. Or we can go proposition the innkeeper’s wife, which personally holds little appeal for me, and also if you say that my ego will be bruised.” Hamilton pauses, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Burr watches the movement, and imagines biting at the thin skin there, what noise that would get out of Hamilton. In a softer voice, utterly serious now, Hamilton says. “It wouldn’t mean anything.”

“Hamilton, shut up.” Burr’s arm snakes out and grabs Hamilton’s wrist and jerks him towards himself. He puts his mouth to Hamilton’s jaw and stands there, breathing hard, _wanting_ but somehow still unable to take the next step. 

Hamilton takes it for him, because he grabs Burr by the back of the neck and brings his head up so he can look him in the eye, searching for something in Burr’s expression that he must find because then he’s kissing him. Burr’s traitorous body roars to a renewed life. He has been so careful, all this time, not to think of anything or anyone, to focus on the situation as self-contained and merely physical, that he is not prepared for the effect human touch has on him. He thinks, in retrospect, that even the merest touch of Hamilton’s hands would have been enough to wreck him, much less the sudden onslaught of Hamilton’s mouth on his, searingly hot, hotter even than Burr’s immolating flesh. His hands grip Burr’s shoulders.

He is kissing Hamilton back, once again moved to a place beyond all thought. His hands bury themselves in Hamilton’s hair, a sharp tug as if he wants to punish Hamilton a bit, despite or because of the fact that he can hear himself moaning into Hamilton’s mouth, that he’s borne Hamilton back against the table hard enough that he hears a glass fall off and shatter, that he is rutting against Hamilton’s thigh. Hamilton just laughs, shudders, his hands clenching spasmodically where they have moved from Burr’s shoulders to his hips. 

Hamilton pulls back from Burr. It is a mercy that he will never be able to be sure whether the heat in his eyes, eaten up by pupil, is the powder, or something else. He has the freedom to choose the belief that it’s nothing more than the drug kicking in, having taken effect far quicker than with Burr due to Hamilton’s recklessness. Hamilton has done him a kindness, in giving him that. 

“Burr, are you sure -” and really if it isn’t typical Hamilton in the most untypical of circumstances, to throw himself heedlessly at a problem and then realize maybe he’s made an error in judgment. But Hamilton can never really extricate himself once he has entered the ring, and Burr isn’t about to let him do so this time. He rolls his eyes heavenward and reaches down, puts his hand over Hamilton’s, guides it to his cock, guides it in rough strokes over himself. Fuck, what is it that he is able to come like that, just the warmth of Hamilton’s hand on him, through layers of cloth, when he wasn’t able to get himself off with his own hand? The angle isn’t so different, and their hands are of a comparable size, but somehow knowing the heat and pressure belongs to someone else is enough. It takes only a moment, and he is still hard, still trembling all over with want, still like a string taut with the tension of trying not to snap. 

“Let me help,” Hamilton says, and drops to his knees. Maybe it is not kindness at all. Maybe Hamilton wants plausible deniability, the pretext that it is some outside force compelling the eagerness with which he bends before Burr, the excitement with which he frees Burr’s cock. It could be nothing more than Hamilton being unable to resist the singular opportunity of gifting his dick with the endurance to live up to his imagination. 

He only thinks this later, though. In the moment, there isn’t anything in his head but the feeling of Hamilton’s thumbs digging bruises into Burr’s hipbones, the sight of him breathing in the scent of Burr’s arousal with a look of rapturous contentment, and then the sensation of Hamilton taking the head of Burr’s cock into his mouth, which drives everything else away before it. 

Hamilton’s mouth had been scorching, blistering, but by now Burr is so feverish that Hamilton’s lips on him almost feel cool by comparison. 

Burr thrusts into Hamilton’s welcoming mouth, uncontrolled and too harsh. Hamilton gags and pulls off. He looks up at Burr in faux annoyance. “That’s what you want? I don’t mind, but give a man a little warning.”

There are a million scathing responses on the tip of Burr’s tongue, if he had not long been robbed of speech. Of course that’s what he wants. Wasn’t all the warning Hamilton could have needed in Burr’s agonized face?

But Hamilton doesn’t give him time to respond. He pins Burr’s hips to the wall with one arm braced across his stomach, and envelops Burr again. The sound of his own nonsense was apparently all the preparation he needed. He lifts his restraining arm and opens his throat, and yes, there isn't any doubt that Hamilton has been in this position before. When Burr hesitates, annoyance once again empowering him to gather up some of the long scattered scraps of his restraint, Hamilton raises his eyebrows in exasperation, to let Burr know to get on with it.

Contrariness is as helpful ballast as irritation. Burr can't help moving, but he doesn't just slam home as his nerves are singing for him to do. He casts his eyes up to the smoke-darkened ceiling, as if minimizing the time spent looking at the spectacle Hamilton makes, on his knees with Burr’s cock in his mouth, ready and willing to let himself be used for Burr’s gratification, will undo the sight being seared into Burr’s memory. His hips jerk in small, circular motions. The wet pressure is far from enough, but still maddeningly good. Burr feels his eyes flutter closed in pleasure.

Until suddenly he finds himself unable to make even those abortive movements, because he is pinned once more, both of Hamilton's hands stilling Burr's hips this time. The wall at his back digs uncomfortably into his spine.

Burr is forced to look down again, into Hamilton’s eyes, glinting in challenge. He is daring Burr to commit, to take a risk, as always wanting Burr to just give himself over to the tide of the moment. Burr could almost laugh. Defending the constitution or giving a blowjob: both are apparently equal grounds for Hamilton to assert that his way of doing things is the superior one. 

But though he is aching for it, he doesn’t move. He can’t pretend its defiance, anymore. That’s a lost cause; the moment he paused he ceded control. In that second he confirmed Hamilton’s opinion of him, in his reaction to this strangest of situations, and Hamilton had moved in, relentless. Now just wants to see what Hamilton will do.

What Hamilton does is draw off Burr’s cock only to swallow him down again, almost to the root. He isn’t impeding Burr’s movement any longer. Burr could do whatever he wants, could fuck into Hamilton’s mouth without regard for his comfort, could grab him by the hair and command his movements like a puppeteer. To think it is to desire it; he would take and take and take what he wants if he wasn’t already gasping at the sight of Hamilton fucking his mouth on Burr’s cock. He slides his lips back down the shaft in a tight embrace to suck at the head, tongues at the slit, and draws off to clean away the precome and saliva gathered there in agonizing little teasing kisses before taking Burr as deep as he can again. 

If he could have ever imagined this in general, if he could have ever fathomed wanting it, he might have imagined this, these specifics. Except no – it shouldn’t be like this at all. What an ugly, hot satisfaction he imagines fantasizing about this would have brought him, Hamilton on his knees, eyes closed in something close to bliss as he moans around Burr’s cock. But somehow that isn’t what is happening at all, somehow the power is still all on Hamilton’s side, the power itself all lies in the loss of it, in the giving in itself – then his vision is crackling at the edges and he’s coming down Hamilton’s throat. 

This seems to have done it, coming with Hamilton’s mouth on him. He can feel himself softening as Hamilton releases him. Hamilton doesn’t immediately rise to his feet, duty dispatched. He presses his forehead to Burr’s stomach and his lips to the juncture between Burr’s thigh and hip, and then looks up to gauge how Burr’s feeling. What Burr is feeling is helplessly angry, that the one time he could have gone beyond himself, given himself over to sensation without the interference of his brain, has been wasted. He was thinking the entire time, of Hamilton, analyzing Hamilton. Someone – maybe Hamilton himself - had once told him that Hamilton’s brain never shut off, never got a moment of quiet, but that hadn’t seemed to be the case just now. 

Or maybe Hamilton’s mind really had been working the whole time, cataloging Burr’s reactions. But – no, that is Burr’s role, to watch, to observe, to weigh up. This is the thought that pierces him through the euphoria that follows the unnatural lust slowly draining away. It’s a thought that won’t be there to examine in the morning, just like those that enter the brain when very drunk, and for that Burr is glad. He can feel it now, in all its shame, mixed with the giddy freedom of acknowledging a long obscured truth, safe in the counter-knowledge that he'll never look it fully in the face.

He jerks up Hamilton with a hand buried in the hair at the base of his neck. It's incredibly soft against Burr’s fingers; he can’t blame Hamilton’s wife for her attachment to it. He takes a moment to pet it while simultaneously undoing the clasp of Hamilton’s pants and fisting his cock. It’s leaking and silken to the touch. Burr gives himself over to this, to the movements of his hand. Hamilton busies himself by sucking a bruise into the skin of his throat as Burr had thought of doing to him earlier; but his efforts are frequently interrupted by moans, laughter, egging Burr on. Burr is thinking of nothing at all as Hamilton comes over his hand. 

He wants – just more. For Burr to fuck Hamilton, or Hamilton to fuck him, to wring every bit of pleasure out of each other they can while being under the effect of the drug gives them the excuse to. Surely Hamilton isn’t done, surely he still is feeling the fire eating away at his guts just as Burr had earlier. But as the aphrodisiac leaves him, he feels himself swaying in exhaustion. His eyes close and he finds the power to stand upright unassisted vanishing. He fumbles at Hamilton, trying to communicate all his impossible desire.  
  
“Burr,” Hamilton says. Just that. The usually abrupt syllables of his surname sounds far softer falling from Hamilton’s mouth than it has any right to. How dare he, Burr wants to ask. “Sleep. We can do everything you’re saying if you still want to in the morning.” 

Burr will, he will want to, he does want to, but in the morning he won’t be brave enough to say it. He can’t even say it now. He lets Hamilton manhandle him onto the tiny bed instead, removes his boots. Burr presses a kiss to Hamilton’s hand as it withdraws from an affectionate pat to Burr’s head, or at least thinks he does. 

Burr falls asleep and does not dream. The last sensation he notes is the sound of papers rubbing together in a sound like dry leaves, as Hamilton resumes his work.


End file.
